


White Lie

by Hope



Category: 21 Jump Street
Genre: External POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-23
Updated: 2005-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unauthorised follow-on from Claire's brilliant fic, <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/claireweasley/246799.html">Truths</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Lie

The Chapel's usual bustle is dimmed a bit today. People might get killed in that neighbourhood all the time, and heck, it isn't infrequent that _cops_ get killed round that neighbourhood (and what line of work are they in anyway?), but a cop from that neighbourhood killing himself? That ain't every day, and the blanketing quiet soberness in Judy's head mirrors the slow, downcast atmosphere of the rest of the Chapel. She sighs, leans her elbows on the filing cabinet and attempts for at least the fifth time in five minutes to read the first paragraph of the report in her hands.

She's stopped this time, however, by the abrupt _slam_ of the Chapel's main entrance. Somewhat glad for the distraction and also vaguely intrigued, she turns her head to look over her shoulder. Tom strides down the steps at a rapid pace, face tight and closed beneath his bowed head, shoulders high and tense. She turns, leaning her elbows back on the filing cabinet, as he gets closer.

"Hey," she lifts her voice as he approaches. "What's--"

Tom doesn't even look up, let alone stop, storming straight past her and heading for the corner of the office with his desk sprawled in it, jacket twisted slightly askew around his waist, and, uh, grass-stained? "Hey--!"

"Sorry," It's Doug, breathless, and he must have come in just behind Tom only quieter, though no less dramatic in appearance; breathless and heavy-browed, and he slows a little he approaches her.

"Doug," Judy's tone comes out more surprised than she anticipated. "What-- Are you--"

Doug turns his gaze abruptly from Tom's trajectory to face her, and immediately starts to go red, from the collar up. "Hi! I, uh…"

Judy starts to get a bad feeling. "What happened? Are you okay?" she's gripping his shoulders before she realises, jerking him forward a little. "Is that _blood_? Doug, did you get in a _fight_?"

"What? Uh, no!" Doug shakes off her grasp and takes a couple of steps back, still a little wild-eyed and seemingly unable to keep still. "It's just… It's nothing. Nothing happened, okay?" And he's gone in the same direction as Tom, just as rapidly.

"Huh." Judy blinks, leans back again to watch Doug disappear from sight behind a bank of shelving and a chapel pillar. The bad feeling has well and truly established itself in her stomach, solidifying into something that makes her feel slightly sick.

Ten more minutes of attempting to read the same paragraph again and she gives in, dropping it to the top of the cabinet with a sigh. She rubs her hand over her eyes, looking up and around the Chapel. At least five pairs of eyes rapidly skitter away from her, and she's _not_ imagining a sudden dulling in the usual chattering sound that fills the space. She frowns.

There seems to be no sound coming from the vicinity of Tom's desk, but as she gets closer she can hear a few - hushed, fierce whispers; the creak of Tom's chair, the sound of something being knocked over. She tries not to tiptoe as she rounds the corner, Doug's whisper finally ringing out clearly; "Yeah? Well maybe _you_ should've--"

"What is this, an interrogation?" Doug startles up at the sound of her voice, straightening abruptly from where he was leaning over Tom's chair, hands braced on the arm rests on either side of Tom's elbows, looming over and in his face. Judy _hopes_ the guilty look on his face is in response to her - only _half-_ \- joking comment. Tom merely flicks his gaze from Doug's to her face, maintaining the same taut, bitter expression. Okay, _now_ Judy feels sick.

"What the heck happened to your face?" she's in there now, she might as well keep talking seeing as neither of them are.

Tom's mouth curls a little, succinct and controlled beneath the newly-forming shiner crowning his cheekbone. "Walked into a door knob," he says, slow, low sarcasm bordering on vehemence, not meeting her eye. The bad feeling in Judy's stomach bursts, starts to leak coolly all on the inside of her skin.

Doug makes a noise somewhere between alarm and irritation. "Look, Judy, now's not the time--"

Tom smirks aloud, finally turning his chair half-away, and Doug pauses to bare his teeth before continuing.

"Could you just--"

"Sure," her tone is just as cold, clipped, as she feels right now. "Sure _Doug_, I understand just _fine_." She knew it'd been to much to hope for that Doug wouldn't tell _anyone_, though she thought she'd known on some level that if he was going to tell someone, Hanson would be the best person to keep that secret for her. She certainly wasn't expecting _this_.

"Look," Doug says, hands held out and facing her, either in defence or supplication, she can't tell. "This isn't anything to _do_ with you, so could you just---" Tom takes the opportunity of Doug's distraction to propel himself up from the chair and out of the desk's enclave. Doug spits a curse.

Judy tries very hard not to stamp her foot as she watches Doug once again go after Tom, this time up the stairs to the locker room, but nonetheless finds herself with hands-on-hips and scowling fiercely when she turns away to find the majority of the Chapel staring at her again.

She debates getting back to work and leaving them to cool down for a while (if anyone knows how to bicker like siblings fighting over the last piece of pie, it's those two), but she's not given much time to decide when raised voices drive her back to their direction. She's almost all the way up the stairs when they fall silent again, and she holds her breath and presses to the wall, edging up closer as silently as she can. A few steps from the top and she can hear their heavy breathing, the clink of metal against the tin of the lockers, and she can see them, just, peering around the final bend in the old staircase.

She bites down on her lip, hard, her immediate thought being that they've heard her approach and it's freeze-framed their fight sequence. Tom's back is up against the lockers, Doug's forearm pressed over his collarbone like Doug's about to arrest him and she almost expects to see his feet dangling and toes brushing the ground but Doug's leaning over, leaning in, faces only inches apart. Tom's face is as dark as before, only less closed now, somehow; maybe now that his eyes are locked on Doug's instead of skimming over Judy's.

"How many more times, huh?" Doug's voice is soft, buzzing in the tense air of the locker rooms. "How many more times you wanna do this?"

Tom's expression might have shifted then, or Judy might have blinked and missed it. Tom raises an arm, not straining too hard beneath the crush of Doug's elbow, and carefully picks a leaf from Doug's hair, following the movement with his eyes. Doug's gaze has dropped to Tom's mouth, and he's leaning impossibly closer, Tom's breathing becoming strained against the press of Doug's arm.

Tom licks his lips. "Well," he says, breathlessly nonchalant. "I guess that depends on--"

Judy's discovers glad she's leaning against the wall when Doug's mouth closes the tiny distance remaining and crushes his mouth to Tom's. She stays long enough to see Tom's eyes slide closed, see his head tilt and mouth bite back before she steps carefully back down the stairs, maintaining her death-grip on the safety rail.

The Chapel is bustling same as ever downstairs, almost surreally so, and only a few heads glance up on her reappearance. She returns to the filing cabinet. Picks up the report. The first paragraph is as unfamiliar as ever.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/29768.html


End file.
